‘And the . . . the cutting?’

Nick Lines shrugged. ‘Carried out with a modicum of skill, it would seem. The one in the hall, they knew which arteries to go for. Likewise here. They had a fair idea of what they were doing.’

‘Time of death?’

‘Hard to say at present. Late last night. Eleven-ish? Sometime round then. Between ten and two, I’d say.’

‘Any sign of sexual activity?’

A faint smile played on Lines’ lips. Phil knew it was his way of displaying irritation at being asked so many initial questions. ‘As Chairman Mao said when asked how effective he thought the French Revolution had been, it’s just too early to tell.’

‘Any clues as to who could have done this?’ said Clayton.

Lines sighed. ‘I just tell you how they died. It’s up to you to find out why.’

‘I meant what kind of person,’ Clayton said, clearly hurt by the response. ‘Build an’ that.’

‘Nothing yet.’

‘How far gone was she?’ asked Anni.

‘Very well advanced, I’d say.’

‘But how far?’

He gave her a professionally contemptuous look, clearly getting irritated. ‘I’m a pathologist, not a clairvoyant.’

‘And we’ve got jobs to do as well,’ said Phil, matching Lines’ irritation with his own. ‘Would this baby be dead by now, or is there a chance it could still be alive?’

Nick Lines looked back at the body on the bed rather than directly at Phil. ‘Judging from the condition of her womb, I’d say almost full term. Only weeks away.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning yes. There’s every chance that this baby is still alive.’

3

Marina Esposito stepped slowly into the room, looked around. She was nervous. Not because of what she was about to do particularly, but because of the public admission. Because once she had taken that step, her life would be changed, redefined for ever.

The room was large, the walls painted in light pastels, the floor wood. It had that warm yet simultaneously cool feel that so many fitness centres had. She had tried to slip quietly into the changing room, not engage anyone with eye contact and certainly not in conversation, get changed as quickly as possible, hoping her body wouldn’t mark her out as one of them. She had heard them and seen them, though, talking and laughing together, and knew instinctively she would never be part of that. Never be one of them. No matter what circumstances dictated. Now she saw the same women in here and her heart sank. Hair piled up or tied back, trainers or bare feet. All wearing brightly coloured, almost dayglo leotards and co-ordinated joggers. Full make-up. Marina was wearing grey jogging bottoms, a black T-shirt, old trainers. She felt dowdy and dull.

Someone stopped behind her. ‘You lost?’

‘Yes,’ she said, turning. She tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t emerge.

‘Pre-natal yoga?’ the woman said, seeing the mat under Marina’s arm.

Marina nodded.

The woman smiled. ‘That’s us, then.’ She patted her stomach. It was much bigger than Marina’s. Taut and hard, the bright orange leotard stretched tight across it. It protruded proudly over the waistline of her rolled-down joggers. Marina could see the distended navel through the material, like the knot of a balloon. The woman smiled like being that size and shape was the most natural thing in the world. She looked at Marina’s stomach.

Oh God, Marina thought. Looking at stomachs. That’s how I have to greet people from now on.

‘How far gone?’

‘Just . . . three months. Four.’

The woman looked into the room. ‘Starting early, that’s good.’

Marina felt she had to reciprocate. ‘What . . . what about you?’

The woman laughed. ‘Any day now, from the size of it. Eight months. I’m Caroline, by the way.’

‘Marina.’

‘Nice to meet you. Well, come on in. We don’t bite.’

Caroline walked into the room, Marina following. Marina sized the other woman up, looking at her face rather than her stomach for the first time. Mid-thirties, perky, cheerful. Probably a housewife from somewhere like Lexden. Kept herself in good shape, filled her days by lunching with friends, going to the gym, the hairdresser’s and the nail salon, shopping. Not Marina’s type of person at all. Caroline stopped to talk to other women, greeting them like old friends. All of them scooped from the same mould as her. Brightly coloured and round. Giggling and laughing. Marina felt she had walked into a Teletubbies convention.

She wanted to turn round, walk out.

But at that moment the instructor arrived and closed the door behind her, cutting off her escape route.

‘See we have a new member . . .’ The instructor beckoned Marina into the room.

Caroline waved her over and Marina, trying to disguise her reluctance, crossed the room, unfurled her mat and waited for the session to start.

There. She had done it. Admitted it in public.

She was pregnant.

4

Phil couldn’t speak.

He looked at his two junior officers. They seemed similarly dumbstruck as the enormity of the statement sank in.

There’s every chance that this baby is still alive . . .

‘Shit . . .’ Phil found his voice.

‘Quite,’ said Nick Lines. He looked back at the bed. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me?’

Phil nodded and ushered his team away from the bedroom, leaving the pathologist to carry on with his job. The three of them still didn’t speak.

He felt his chest tightening, his pulse quickening. He could hear the blood pumping round his body, feel the throb of his heart like a huge metronome, marking off the seconds, a ticking clock telling him to get moving, get this baby found . . .

He called over one of the uniformed officers in the living room. ‘Right, I want this whole—’ He stopped. ‘Liz, is it?’

She nodded.

‘Right. Liz.’ He spoke fast but clearly. Urgent but not panicking. ‘I want this whole block of flats searched. Everyone questioned, don’t take no for an answer, draft in as many as you can on door-to-door work.You know what I mean: did anyone hear anything, see anyone suspicious. Someone must have done. Use your instincts, be guided by what they say. I noticed the flats have all got video entry-phones. If someone got in, they must have been buzzed in. And seen. And I want the area combed. Do it thoroughly but do it quickly.’ He dropped his voice. ‘You know what we’re looking for.’

The officer nodded, went away to begin the search.

‘Boss . . .’

Phil turned, looked at Anni. She was the highest-ranking woman on his team and he had requested for her to be there. She was trained to deal with rape cases, abused children, any situation where a male presence might be a barrier to uncovering the truth. But that wasn’t why Phil wanted her. She had an intelligence and intuition that he had rarely encountered. And despite the ever-changing hair and the impish smile, she could be tougher than the best when needed to be. Even tougher than him. For all of that, he could forgive the affected way she spelled her first name.

‘Yes, Anni?’

‘What about Julie Simpson?’

Phil looked around, mentally trying to think through what must have happened. ‘If it’s all about . . .’ he gestured towards the bedroom, ‘then I’m afraid she was just wrong place, wrong time.’

Anni nodded, as if he had confirmed her thoughts. Then frowned. ‘Shouldn’t we keep an open mind?’

‘Course.’ He felt the blood pumping once more, his internal clock telling him time was running out. ‘But . . .’

‘So was this party a baby shower, then?’ said Clayton.

Anni looked at him. ‘You’d know about them, would you?’

Clayton reddened. ‘My sister. She had one . . .’

Despite the situation, Anni smiled.

Phil cut their repartee short. ‘Right. Let’s think. So Claire Fielding was having a baby shower. If she, or her baby, was the one deliberately targeted, then whoever did this must have thought she was alone. Maybe they miscounted or something.’ He sighed, trying to control his heart rate. ‘But just in case it’s anything to do with Julie Simpson, get the Birdies to follow up on her. Talk to the husband. See if he knows who else was here.’